was eating with them, Cory interrupted a story he was telling about a man with a quadruple-E shoe size and bunions the size of eggs. “I’m sorry, John,” she said, “but she’s going to have to know sooner or later.” And she looked at Marion and said, “I’m pregnant and John’s the father.”
“Jesus Christ,” John said, dropping his knife onto the floor. A full confession.
Marion watched him pick the knife up. The back of his neck was the colour of beetroot. “Why do I feel as if I already know this?” she asked, genuinely curious. She looked at her lifeline. It was long but forked.
“Listen—” John said.
“I’m not having an abortion and I’m not giving it up for adoption,” Cory said.
John planted his hands flat on the table. “Okay—” he said. He took a deep breath.
“No way I’m giving it up,” Cory said. “Not this time.”
“Excuse me,” Marion said, pushing back her chair.
“Hey!” John said. “Where are you going?” He followed her into the front hall. “Come on. Jesus. Where are you going?”
“Let her go,” Cory said.
Marion never laid eyes on him again. He phoned her at the farmhouse three times that night, but she wouldn’t talk to him. The next morning, while she lay on her old bed and wept, only letting herself really wail whenever the electric saw started up (Grace was having the kitchen renovated), her father and Grace drove to see him at his gas station. They told her nothing she hadn’t figured out. John was confused. He still loved her. He wanted to do the right thing by the baby.
“How’s he know it’s
his,
that’s what I kept harping on,” Grace said.
“It’s his,” Marion said. Hadn’t she foreseen John and Cory’s children?
And yet she waited for him to knock the door down, to beg her to come back. When he phoned he said he loved her, then started crying and couldn’t speak. She hung up. One day she stayed on the line to ask, “Do you love Cory?”
“Not … not … not …,” he said.
She waited.
“Not as much as you.”
She dropped the phone and went into the bathroom and considered the bottle of codeine. It wasn’t worse than when her mother died. Her body didn’t have that thin, hollow sensation of being made of crêpe paper. And the pain wasn’t non-stop. There were hours at a time when she felt fine, even relieved. Compared to her mother dying it could feel like nothing, but it could also
remind
her of her mother dying. Force her—especially when she was falling asleep or just waking up—to see the piece of skin on the refrigerator and the skirts and blouses flattened in boxes for the Salvation Army. It was like being an alcoholic, and somebody gives you a drink.
What helped was going into work six days a week. She sat with the beagle puppies in her lap and tried not to pray it was John every time the bell on the door announced a customer.When she finally let Mrs. Hodgson know what was wrong, Mrs. Hodgson said, “Here’s one that’ll cheer you up,” and told her about a woman who stole her best friend’s husband, moved into the marital house and a week later was fried to a crisp when the furnace exploded.
Thereafter Mrs. Hodgson’s idea of lifting Marion’s spirits was reporting on any sightings of Cory in town. Cory was seen at the liquor store “loading up.” At the drugstore buying a tube of lipstick with a hundred-dollar bill. One day Marion herself saw her. Cory walked in front of the car when Marion was stopped at a red light. She was wearing blue-jean shorts and Marion’s red-and-blue plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves and knotted under the tender swell of her belly.
That evening Marion phoned John at the store, the first time she’d phoned him. She was crying. She didn’t know what she was going to say.
But Cory answered. “Is that you, Marion?” she shouted after saying hello three times.
Marion covered the mouthpiece with her hand.
“Listen, Marion,” Cory shouted. “You know, it’s
“Jesus Christ,” John said, dropping his knife onto the floor. A full confession.
Marion watched him pick the knife up. The back of his neck was the colour of beetroot. “Why do I feel as if I already know this?” she asked, genuinely curious. She looked at her lifeline. It was long but forked.
“Listen—” John said.
“I’m not having an abortion and I’m not giving it up for adoption,” Cory said.
John planted his hands flat on the table. “Okay—” he said. He took a deep breath.
“No way I’m giving it up,” Cory said. “Not this time.”
“Excuse me,” Marion said, pushing back her chair.
“Hey!” John said. “Where are you going?” He followed her into the front hall. “Come on. Jesus. Where are you going?”
“Let her go,” Cory said.
Marion never laid eyes on him again. He phoned her at the farmhouse three times that night, but she wouldn’t talk to him. The next morning, while she lay on her old bed and wept, only letting herself really wail whenever the electric saw started up (Grace was having the kitchen renovated), her father and Grace drove to see him at his gas station. They told her nothing she hadn’t figured out. John was confused. He still loved her. He wanted to do the right thing by the baby.
“How’s he know it’s
his,
that’s what I kept harping on,” Grace said.
“It’s his,” Marion said. Hadn’t she foreseen John and Cory’s children?
And yet she waited for him to knock the door down, to beg her to come back. When he phoned he said he loved her, then started crying and couldn’t speak. She hung up. One day she stayed on the line to ask, “Do you love Cory?”
“Not … not … not …,” he said.
She waited.
“Not as much as you.”
She dropped the phone and went into the bathroom and considered the bottle of codeine. It wasn’t worse than when her mother died. Her body didn’t have that thin, hollow sensation of being made of crêpe paper. And the pain wasn’t non-stop. There were hours at a time when she felt fine, even relieved. Compared to her mother dying it could feel like nothing, but it could also
remind
her of her mother dying. Force her—especially when she was falling asleep or just waking up—to see the piece of skin on the refrigerator and the skirts and blouses flattened in boxes for the Salvation Army. It was like being an alcoholic, and somebody gives you a drink.
What helped was going into work six days a week. She sat with the beagle puppies in her lap and tried not to pray it was John every time the bell on the door announced a customer.When she finally let Mrs. Hodgson know what was wrong, Mrs. Hodgson said, “Here’s one that’ll cheer you up,” and told her about a woman who stole her best friend’s husband, moved into the marital house and a week later was fried to a crisp when the furnace exploded.
Thereafter Mrs. Hodgson’s idea of lifting Marion’s spirits was reporting on any sightings of Cory in town. Cory was seen at the liquor store “loading up.” At the drugstore buying a tube of lipstick with a hundred-dollar bill. One day Marion herself saw her. Cory walked in front of the car when Marion was stopped at a red light. She was wearing blue-jean shorts and Marion’s red-and-blue plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves and knotted under the tender swell of her belly.
That evening Marion phoned John at the store, the first time she’d phoned him. She was crying. She didn’t know what she was going to say.
But Cory answered. “Is that you, Marion?” she shouted after saying hello three times.
Marion covered the mouthpiece with her hand.
“Listen, Marion,” Cory shouted. “You know, it’s
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